Keeping Secrets
by Crayola Crayon
Summary: Slash StanKyle Stan Marsh is twenty-six-years old and already a top soldier and covert ops specialist. What he discovers on this mission, however, is going to change everything. **OBVIOUSLY ON HIATUS**
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Keeping Secrets  
**Author:** Megan Ann  
**Genre:** Drama, Angst, a hint of romance  
**Rating:** PG-13 (for now)  
**Pairings:** Stan/Kyle (in future chapters)  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything even remotely related to South Park. I don't own Kyle, or Stan, or Cartmen, or Kenny. Honestly, do you think I'd be writing this if I did?  
**Warnings:** For this chapter: violence, swearing  
Probable future warnings: Slash, more violence, more swearing  
**Notes:** My brain came up with this one day. I don't know how long it's going to be, but it might be quite a bit. So sit back and just enjoy the ride.

This takes place many years after the show. Stan is twenty-six.

---

**Keeping Secrets**

Chapter 1

_"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead."  
__Benjamin Franklin_

---

Stan Marsh's hands methodically moved through the task of dismantling his P90. They were easy movements that had been drilled into him through years of constant repetition. Most people would think it was crazy to be calmed by cleaning a gun, but the simple task was more relaxing to him than any trip to a spa. He could do it blindfolded.

He had just slid the last piece into place when the door opened and his team looked to the opening. They got up and moved silently towards the exit.

He was the last through, and his CO pulled him aside as soon as he cleared the room. "There's an agent. Not our department. He's going by the name David Welling. If he's hurt, we're going to end up in deep. He needs to be out."

Stan frowned. This bit of information threw a wrench the size of Montana into their plans. It had the potential to ruin everything they'd been planning for months. "What department? Why wasn't I told earlier?"

Johnson's dark eyes were calm, but there was anger behind them. "I don't know. The operation is so black that I don't have clearance." Stan blinked in surprise. "This has the potential to go south so fast it would make your head spin. The only reason it's still on is I trust you."

Stan knew what that meant. If he screwed up, he would be at best demoted to a janitor. He might end up out of the department and out of a job. He might end up dead.

"Yes, sir."

---

He took aim. With one smooth motion he flipped a switch and a red light appeared on the torso of one guard. A single shot was fired off and the light vanished. He heard the almost silent sound of some of his team discharging their own shots. Glancing to his side, he made a few quick hand motions. Night vision goggles in place, they moved in.

Once upon a time, Stan compared the movements of his team to a shadow. Now, as he watched his men, the analogy seemed to pale in comparison. Their movements were poetic.

The security was disabled in seconds. They moved into the mansion with no warning, splitting into groups of three. While the outside seemed like a beautifully decorated and luxurious palace, just inside the windows there were no remnants of comfort. The walls were gunmetal grey and the florescent lights buzzed harshly.

At the first door, Yates dropped to the floor on one side of the door. Norman swiped an identification card they'd stolen from a fallen guard through the slot. Stan hung back.

The door slid open and just behind it was a man with black hair, brown eyes, and an angry frown.

"My name is David Welling. Code alpha-charlie-seven-seven-three-niner-two dash five-three. What the fuck do you assholes think you are doing?"

Yates and Norman glanced back and Stan lifted a hand up in a 'hold' signal. He stepped forward.

"Mr. Welling, I have orders from my superiors. We are to secure this site."

Welling rolled his eyes with contempt. "I know your orders. I knew them before you heard anything about them. You morons are destroying months of hard work."

Stan said nothing.

"I'm going with you. Give me a gun."

Norman took the sidearm strapped to his leg and handed it to Welling, who checked the gun quickly. And then nodded to the three of them. "This level is mostly empty. The upper ranks are on the second floor, sleeping. I've made sure that any personalized security has been disabled. Security is at a minimum." He gave them a wan smile. "I've done most of your job for you."

As they filed through the door he fixed Stan with a stare. "What's your name, soldier?"

Not intimidated in the least, Stan met his gaze. "Stan Marsh."

An emotion he couldn't quite pin down flickered across Welling's face, but it was gone an instant later. "Let's go."

---

The rest of the operation went off completely smoothly. In just over an hour the site was secure and the cover-up was underway. That aspect of the job was something that Stan hoped he never had anything to do with. Tracking down all of the paper trails and eliminating all evidence was a tedious and time-consuming job.

He was watching the action from a short distance away when he got the peculiar tickle at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. He twisted his head slightly to the side.

"You're good," Welling said as he walked up to stand next to Stan. "While I'm not happy that my operation was ruined, I'm glad they at least assigned the task to a competent soldier."

Stan glanced at Welling's profile. In the pre-dawn light, he seemed a little sad. "How long had you been undercover?"

Welling paused a second. "Five months."

Stan whistled quietly. "Hell of a long time for one mission." Silence. "What's your name?"

"You know my name."

"Your real name."

Welling laughed; a short, sharp bark. "I barely even remember that. But when I'm not on missions, I go by Andrew Evington."

The two stood in silence until Welling—no, Stan corrected himself, Evington—put a hand on Stan's shoulder. His other hand grasped Stan's in a firm handshake. "You're a good soldier. I'll be writing your CO a letter of commendation. I'm sure this is the last time we'll ever speak."

Stan kept his face carefully blank as Evington walked away. He turned back to the activity on the lawn of the mansion and shoved his hands into his civilian jeans. Ten minutes later he got into his car and left.

---

Stan waited until he was one hour away, in the middle of a mall parking lot, and made sure he hadn't been followed, before he took the slip of paper out of his pocket. He'd been surprised when Evington had slipped him the note, though he hoped he'd hid that surprise well. He took a penlight from his glove compartment and carefully studied the note.

_'15 2020 -- O'Malley's Bar & Grill. Corner booth.'_

His mind spun. He knew where O'Malley's was, having been there once before with some friends. The fifteenth was tomorrow. 2020 was 8:20 that night.

Why was Evington trying to contact him? Surely the man had better things to do than deal with some underling. Something was up.

It could be a trap, he reminded himself. He could end up dead. He could end up worse than dead.

But, he noted as he opened the car door and set fire to the note with a lighter, he would be going anyway.

---

Stan later realized that O'Malley's was the perfect place to stage a meeting. It was noisy and just a little crowded, but he was able to find the seat he wanted. The lighting was dim, and the food was excellent. He ordered a glass of moderately expensive wine and assumed that Evington would be paying for it. After all, the man probably made thousands more than he did.

He arrived just after eight and kept a casual but constant eye on his watch. He told the flirtatious waitress that came around that he was waiting for someone, and at precisely 8:20, Evington slid into the booth across from him.

"You came." Evington's smile said that he hadn't expected Stan to show up.

"Is that a good thing?"

"Maybe."

The same waitress was back, smiling a little too much. Stan ordered steak and potatoes and Guinness. Evington ordered chicken and wine.

"Why am I here?" Stan asked when the girl left. She was way too young anyway.

The other man favored him with a wry smile. "I'm no philosopher."

"You know what I meant."

"Well, why you came I couldn't tell you." His eyes were studying Stan intently. "Most people wouldn't. They'd be too afraid, too cautious."

Stan frowned. "Nice to know you think I'm incompetent."

"Oh, I know you're not."

Annoyed by the constant evasion of his question, Stan asked again. "Why did you invite me here?"

Evington went quiet. When he spoke, some of the self-assured manner had left him. "I invited you here because... because I wanted to talk."

"About?" He wasn't about to let him get off that easily.

The same express Stan swore he saw when he first met David Welling flittered across Evington's face, and this time he thought it was sadness. Evington was saved from answering by the waitress returning with their drinks.

"So...?" Stan prompted.

Evington's gaze seemed to be locked on the soft motion of Stan's Guinness settling. Absentminded fingers played with the stem of his wine glass. "I recognized you."

"You invited me here because you recognized me?"

"That's what I said."

Stan leaned back in his seat. "Well, I don't recognize you, so you're obviously mistaken."

Evington's unsure manner left in an instant and steady brown eyes met Stan's. "I'm never mistaken. And definitely not about this."

Stan's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Well, even if I did know you once upon a time, why all of this secrecy?"

The other man's wry smile was back. "I'm not supposed to know people. It's dangerous—for them."

Stan's temper, which never had been as obvious in him as it was in his sister, flared. "So you just decided to put me into mortal danger for the hell of it? For kicks? What makes you think I would care?"

Evington was silent.

Stan leaned forward, hissing his words across the table. "So if you're going to put me in all this fucking danger, then tell me... who are you? Your real name. Come on, spill."

Evington spat his response back, defiantly. "Kyle Broflovski."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Keeping Secrets

**Author:** Megan Ann

**Genre:** Drama, Angst, a hint of romance

**Rating:** PG-13 (for now)

**Pairings:** Stan/Kyle (in future chapters)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything even remotely related to South Park. I don't own Kyle, or Stan, or Cartman, or Kenny. Honestly, do you think I'd be writing this if I did?

**Warnings:** Slash (duh), flashbacks, violence, and a lot of swearing in this chapter (but if you're reading South Park fanfiction, violence and/or swearing really shouldn't shock you)

**Notes:** Okay, this chapter begins me kind of splitting the story in two. Most of it will be in present day, but there will be flashbacks to sixteen years ago, so you can see what actually happened. I tried to make it pretty obvious when I flashback, but I'm sorry if I confuse anyone.

And I'd like to thank my one reviewer, Lamia Astaroth! And that was extra special, because I love your stories. I read all of your work on , including Why Don't You Love Me? (and I reviewed anonymously as 'Me'... I know, uncreative). So that was just pretty darn cool. Sorry for the groupie-type gushing there.

And for all you slash freaks (of which I am one), it should crop up soon?

---

**Keeping Secrets**

Chapter 2

_"To him that you tell your secret you resign your liberty."_

_Anonymous proverb_

---

_- Sixteen years earlier -_

"Dude, where the fuck is the Jew?" A ten-year-old Eric Cartman asked of his two friends. The three boys stood next to a stop sign in the snow that South Park was perpetually covered with.

"Shut up, fatass," Stan said in defense of his absent friend. "Maybe he's sick."

"Yeah, that's what he gets for being a fucking Jew."

"Shut _up_, fatass," Stan said automatically.

_"He looked fine yesterday,"_ Kenny added, the words muffled by his orange hood.

"What the fuck do you know, Kenny? You're too poor to know. That's why poor people aren't doctors."

Cartman was saved from a severe beating by the bus pulling up in front of them. The metal doors swung open wide to the irritated face of Ms. Crabtree.

"Get the fuck on the bus!" She screamed, near incomprehensibly.

The three of them filed into the relative warmth of the school bus.

When Stan got home later that evening, he threw his backpack into the corner of his room and sat down to get some serious cartoon time in. School normally sucked, but school without Kyle sucked even more. Without Kyle there to defend himself, Cartman was even worse than normal, which said a lot. Of course, Stan tried to defend his absent friend, but gave up about halfway through the day and just tried to tune the fat boy out.

He hadn't even noticed it getting dark until the ringing of the phone snapped him out of his TV induced trance. He grumbled as he went to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Stanley?" It was the high pitched and more than a little annoying voice of Mrs. Broflovski.

"Hello Mrs. Broflovski," he said, voice just barely tinged with annoyance. Kyle's mom had never been his favorite person, although she liked him just fine.

Never one to waste words on manners when she needed something, Sheila plowed ruthlessly on. "Is Kyle over there? Tell him to come home."

"Kyle?" Stan asked in confusion.

"Yes, Kyle. And tell him he's in trouble when he gets back! He knows he's supposed to be home before it gets dark, and—"

Stan frowned. "Mrs. Broflovski, didn't Kyle stay home sick today?"

"No, he went to school. He had a math test today."

"He wasn't at the bus stop."

"What, what, _what?_" Mrs. Broflovski screeched in her trademark manner.

"He never went to school." The implications of this seemed to hit Stan all of a sudden, and he sat down heavily on his couch.

"Are you sure?" Sheila's voice screeched through the phone.

Stan's stomach turned and he could feel the blood draining from his face. "He wasn't there. We all figured he was sick. I..." He trailed off, unable to continue.

Suddenly, the panicking mother he'd heard just a second ago was replaced by the woman who had declared war on another country just for making an inappropriate movie. "He could be at his other friends. I'll call them. If you see or hear from him, call me, okay Stanley? Can you think of anywhere else he might be?"

Stan shook his head, forgetting that she couldn't see him. "No."

"I'll find him. And when I do, he is going to be in more trouble..." mumbling to herself, the phone cut off as Kyle's mother obviously started on a campaign to call every household in South Park.

Stan sat, still holding the buzzing phone. Somehow he knew that this wasn't as simple as Kyle playing hooky. Kyle would _never_ skip out of school because he knew that his mother would kill him. And even if she wouldn't, that just the kind of person that Kyle was.

"Kyle, dude," Stan muttered to himself. "I really hope you're okay."

---

_- Present day -_

The next thing twenty-six-years old Stan Marsh knew was the sensation of his fist forcibly connecting with someone else's flesh. His vision was tinged red, and he could hear the sound of glass shattering.

When his vision cleared, he had Evington—the bastard couldn't be Kyle, this was all a sick joke—by the throat, pinned to the booth. He felt hands on him, attempting to pull him off, but he wasn't going to be deterred so easily.

"You _bastard_," he hissed angrily. "You _sick bastard._ Who the _fuck_ do you think you are?"

Evington, for all that he was being viciously attacked, just lay there passively. "Kyle," he answered back.

This was too much for Stan. Letting go of the man's throat with one hand, he drove a fist into his stomach. And another. And another. And one to his face. And another.

And Evington did nothing. He simply took the beating, which just enraged Stan more. "Fight _back_, you sick fuck!"

"I'm not going to fight you, Stan."

And then there were enough people clawing at him to pull him off of Evington. Stan fought like a man possessed, screaming and thrashing in a futile attempt to get out of the others' hold on him. He wouldn't take his eyes off of Evington. "Fuck you! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ you, you sick son of a bitch!"

And it wasn't until Evington's image blurred that he realized there were tears in his eyes.

"How _dare_ you, you fucking cocksucker?!"

Evington was talking to another man, whom Stan distantly recognized as the owner of the restaurant. He didn't care.

"Fight me! _Fight me!_" He screamed until his voice broke.

He was being led outside. The only reason he didn't struggle even more was that he could see Evington walking ahead of him. The cold air hit him as they left the building. His jacket was still inside.

Evington turned around as soon as they reached the parking lot. "You can let him go."

"Are you sure?" someone asked him, obviously hesitant to just release the crazed man.

"Yes."

Suddenly there were no more hands on him. Stan stood there, staring Evington down, and listened to the footsteps fade away as everyone went back in the restaurant.

They stood there for ages until Stan broke the silence. "Who. Are. You?"

Evington's face was stoic, though his eyes were sad. "I know you don't want to hear it—"

"Don't." Stan warned sharply. "Don't tell me that you're Kyle. You are _not_ Kyle. You _can't_ be Kyle."

Another eternity passed in silence. Stan's ragged breathing slowed and quieted. His shoulders stopped heaving. He glared at the other man. "Kyle Broflovski vanished sixteen years ago. He's dead."

"I never died." Evington said quietly, but steadily.

Stan shook his head and turned away, then back. He looked at the man, and then into the distance, and then back again. He sighed. "Fine, then. Prove that you're Kyle. Tell me something he'd know."

The dark brown eyes glanced around, as if trying to find something to help him. "You... you have a sister named Shelly who beat you up every day, or for as long as I knew you."

Stan laughed, but the sound was angry and dark. "That's not exactly a secret."

"You were in love with Wendy Testaburger, but threw up anytime you two even got close."

Stan barked out another laugh. "And neither is that."

Evington bit his lip. "You started La Résistance to impress Wendy."

Stan said nothing.

"I had a lawyer dad, an overbearing mom, and an adopted Canadian brother."

Stan closed the gap between the two. He had a few inches on the other man, and used them to seem as imposing as he could. "None of this is really anything that you couldn't find out. You want me to believe that you're Kyle? _Prove it._"

The imposter shook his head. "I don't know what you want, Stan. I could tell you so many things. We once got an Ethiopian that we named Marvin in the mail instead of a watch. You hated those time immigrants when they arrived in South Park because they took our shoveling business. We once snuck into a top secret government facility to get a game system back. I could go on forever, but you have to believe me. I am Kyle."

Stan grabbed at the man's shoulders and studied his face. Of course, he knew that even ten-year old Stan Marsh didn't look exactly like twenty-six-year old Stan Marsh. And he also knew that, despite his best efforts, through those sixteen years he'd forgotten a lot of what ten-year-old Kyle Broflovski looked like. But something deep inside him hoped that he'd be able to see his friend in this man, that he'd be able to instinctively know if he was who he claimed to be. He wracked his brain for details. "Kyle had green eyes."

The man reached up and squeezed around the iris of his eye, dislodging a thin piece of tinted plastic and throwing it to the ground. "Contacts."

Stan stared at the single startlingly green eye and faltered. He swallowed thickly. "Kyle didn't have black hair."

He smiled again, sadly. "Hair dye. I was undercover for a long time in that operation."

Stan shook his head mutely. His throat felt thick and his eyes stung. He didn't how, but his grip on the shoulders of the man claiming to be Kyle Broflovski had changed from a furious hold to just trying to hold himself up.

"Kyle?"

Mismatched eyes met his. "Yeah, dude."

It was hard to say who broke first. Both men would probably say the other one. But in any case, anyone walking through O'Malley's parking lot just before 9:00 that night would have seen to grown men clinging to each other as if they were the last two people in creation.

---

_- Sixteen years earlier -_

"Yes, Sheila. No, I completely understand. No, it's no trouble. I'll ask. Yes, I'll call you back..."

Stan listened in on his mother's phone conversation in the other room. He sat on his couch, the TV blaring away in front of him, but he couldn't even tell what was on.

Kyle had been missing for a week. Thanks to the ruthless Sheila Broflovski, everyone in town knew that he was gone. What's more, after seeing the normally strong and controlled woman break down into a mere shadow after only seven days of her son being gone, they all cared.

Stan had told the police and both of Kyle's parents every moment that he could remember from the past two weeks. He really didn't put all that much trust into Officer Barbrady as a competent police official, but he knew the kind of determination that the Broflovski's had.

His mother walked into the room then, the phone dangling from her fingers.

Stan looked at her. "I don't remember anything, Mom. Everything was normal."

"I know, Stanley." She didn't even bother to ask how he knew what she was going to say.

"I've tried to help!" Stan insisted, getting off the couch, too restless to sit anywhere. "I told everyone everything, but... I don't know what happened!"

Sharon Marsh knelt down in front of her son and wrapped her arms around him. Stan didn't move. "I swear I don't know anything. I want to help... I want Kyle back."

"Shh... I know, Stan, I know..."

And the boy who hadn't cried at so many other things over the years, burst out into tears.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** In this chapter there is: swearing, vague hints of slash (which I can promise will be in the next chapter!), flashbacks, lots of talking.

**Notes:**Wow, ten reviews! I want to seriously thank all of my reviewers.

_Diala_ - I've seen your fanart at deviantArt before and I love it all. That picture of Kyle "expressing himself" on Stan is genius... and slightly disturbing.

_Jean_ - Aw, shucks, you made me blush. I'm happy to say that some of your questions will be answered in this chapter (kind of).

_E2K_ - I was afraid the first chapter might confuse some people. Hopefully, as the story goes on, everything will be made much clearer. (P.S.: I love your stories so much.)

_Lamia_ - Thank you again. With any luck, you'll stay hooked.

_AngelofShad0ws_ - Oh, the slash will be coming up soon. I wouldn't dream of depriving you all... and myself, of course.

_Leela's tears_ - I've always been a big action/adventure person, and that isn't going to stop. If you thought that first part was Mission: Impossible/spy movie-esque, just wait until some future chapters.

_Cellar door_ - Thank you to the most beautiful combination of sounds in the English language!

---

**Keeping Secrets**

Chapter 3

_"A secret is like a dove; when it leaves my hand it takes wing."  
__Arabian Proverb_

---

_- Present day -_

Stan absently fiddled with the mug of black coffee in his hands. He was in a small diner sitting across from Kyle. Kyle Broflovski. A man who, by all accounts, was dead and buried. Just the thought made him wish he had something stronger than coffee.

If he was honest with himself, he could see the bits of Sheila and Gerald Broflovski in the man across from him. The set of his jaw, the shape of his eyes. Little things that confirmed Stan's greatest hopes and fears.

"What happened to you?"

Kyle was turning his mug around in circles. He let his words go carefully, cautiously. "What does everyone think happened?"

Stan frowned and glanced over the rest of the diner. It was almost empty. "They think you're dead. Officially, you _are _dead. You just never showed up for school one day, and never went home." He wrenched his gaze up. "They found your body."

Kyle raised his eyebrows.

He nodded. "Almost a year after you disappeared. It was in Wyoming. There wasn't... your parents couldn't identify it, but they had DNA..." he choked on the words.

"It was a fake."

"Well no shit, Sherlock," was his sarcastic answer. "Obviously. But how the hell did they manage to pull that off?"

Kyle shrugged and snorted derisively. "With South Park's completely inept police force? I imagine it wasn't that hard. I'm sure nobody looked close enough, but the actual DNA comparison was probably done by a national lab, and not a regional one. I think the FBI took care of it. The information is false. The actual body was probably just some orphan they dragged off the streets."

A harsh stare. "How do you know all of that?"

Kyle — Stan was sure he'd never get sick of that name — didn't meet his eyes. "Because I wasn't the first person they'd done that to, and I wasn't the last." He shifted in his seat and switched the topic. "What about South Park? What happened after..." He trailed off, obviously looking for the right word, but there was none. "After."

"Everyone looked for you." Stan said. "You know your mom. She had the whole town on a 24/7 Kyle Alert for the first few weeks."

"What about after that?"

Stan picked at something crusted onto the table. "She couldn't handle you being gone."

The other man sat up straight at Stan's words. "What? Is she—"

Stan realized what that must have sounded like and quickly cut off Kyle's train of thought. "No, _no_, she's still alive and around, but... she isn't the same."

"How?"

"She just doesn't care as much. You know how she was. She started a war over a few bad words. Now..." Stan shrugged. "I don't even think she'd care if they made that movie now."

This news, above anything else he'd heard, seemed to hit Kyle. His face was blank as he stared into his coffee mug. Stan studied the man for what seemed like the thousandth time that night.

It was a lot to take in. For both of them.

"What about everyone else?" Kyle asked, determined but also tentative. "Cartman? Kenny?"

Stan finished up the last of his coffee and smiled. "Oh, they're around. Cartman is in California. He has some big business and a new, beautiful gold-digger on his arm every week."

Kyle smiled and Stan saw a ghost of the ten-year-old in him. "Kenny?"

"Well, he's alive, and I suppose that's pretty good for him. He's married to Kelly and they have a kid on the way." The name seemed to strike something in Kyle and he appeared to be searching for the memory it came from. Stan smiled at his old friend's confusion. "The girl from Getting Gay With Kids. Remember Costa Rica? They ended up both going to Colorado University. They met each other completely randomly and hit it off, again."

"That's a pretty big coincidence."

The absurdity of those words struck the two men just then and they both laughed. The tension that had filled the air between them vanished. As Kyle laughed Stan remembered that he'd forgotten what that sounded like. It was beautiful.

A matronly waitress appeared at their table and they moved their coffees to be refilled. She gave them a kindly smile and moved on.

"Where did you go?"

The question was so simple that it took Kyle by surprise. Stan's face was more relaxed than it had been only a second ago, but there were questions stated plainly in his eyes. "I can't tell you exactly where. The less you know, the safer you are." The new drink was too hot, and he waited patiently for it to cool down.

"But I'll tell you the rest. You deserve to know." He paused again, casting his mind into the past and trying to find a place to start. "I was walking to the bus stop..."

---

_- Sixteen years earlier -_

A ten-year-old Kyle Broflovski hummed a tune under his breath as he hopped down the concrete steps of his home. There had been a snowfall the previous night and everything seemed healthy and refreshed.

He was three houses down when the crunchy sound of tires slowly compacting snow made him glance to his side. There was a black SUV creeping along the sidewalk, and moving steadily closer to him.

He turned back around and sped up his step just a little, all the time telling himself that he was just being paranoid.

He saw the truck pull level with him out of the corner of his vision and kept his eyes on the pavement. The truck stopped and he kept going.

"Kyle Broflovski."

Despite his best judgment, Kyle stopped and turned. A man was standing ankle-deep in snow, the back seat car door standing open next to him.

His first thought was that they were wasting perfectly good heat.

Of course, that was absurd.

Kyle looked around, but the streets were empty this early in the day. The bus stop was around the corner. He knew that he couldn't outpace a car, but if he cut through some lawns, he might just be able to make it.

"Kyle Broflovski," the man repeated, getting the boy's attention again. "You are going to come with us."

Kyle laughed. "Like hell I will." He gripped the strap of his backpack tighter and prepared to run for it.

The man shook his head. "You will, because if you don't your family and friends will die for it."

Dumbstruck, Kyle gaped at the man. He was wearing sunglasses. He had to be lying.

As if sensing the boy's thoughts, the man continued. "I assure you I am telling the truth."

Kyle closed his mouth with a snap and glared at the man. "If you were lying before, then you are just lying again now."

Instead of surprising or angering the man, this made him smile. "Very logical, but incorrect. We have snipers positioned right now. All they need is my word." He stepped back, to the side of the open door, and gestured in.

Kyle shook his head. Did they really think he was that dumb? "Prove it."

The man waved a hand, and there was a strange, hissing sort of noise, then a loud crack and the snow at Kyle's feet sprayed up into his face. He jumped and looked around. They'd just _shot_ at him! Eyes wide in fear, he looked back up at the man, who was still smiling, though the expression was hard and cruel.

He took a hesitant step forward, stopped, and looked at the small crater in the snow. Squaring his shoulders, Kyle got into the back seat of the truck. The man stepped in after him, closed the door, and they were gone.

---

_- Present day -_

Stan's mouth hung open as Kyle finished his story.

Kyle laughed quietly. "Of course, I was a complete moron. This was a secret program. Massacring people in such an obvious way, a way that would have gotten national news coverage, wasn't their _modus operandi_. Too public."

"So you could've walked away?" Stan asked, still shocked by the truth about his friend's mysterious disappearance all those years ago.

"No, of course not," Kyle stated matter-of-factly. "They would've killed _me_, I'm sure. But they wouldn't have gone any farther than that."

A chill ran through Stan's body at his friend's casual mention of death.

Kyle, oblivious, went on. "After that was kind of boring. Training. Lots of school, very fast."

Stan attempted to imagine a life that was nothing but constant school and work, with no time in between for fun. A life that didn't have any of his major milestones; his sixteenth birthday, homecoming dances, proms, dating, graduating.

"How'd you stand it?"

"Well, there were... others." All of a sudden, Kyle's mind seemed a thousand miles away. Maybe, Stan guessed, it was.

"Others?" Stan prompted. "Like you?"

Kyle smiled. "Yeah, I guess. There were two when I got there, and one a few months after. There's always someone leaving, and someone new to take their place." Kyle's smile was fond and there was a story in it, but Stan knew that now wasn't the time to act.

They sat companionably until this time Kyle broke the silence. "What about you, Stan? You told me about Kenny and Cartman, but how have you been doing? And more importantly, why the hell the army? I mean, when we were kids you couldn't even shoot a rabbit."

Stan laughed. "Hey, who wants to kill a little bunny? I still can't. Hunting is never going to be my thing."

Kyle shook his head in amusement. "And the rest of it?"

Stan shrugged. "Well, I wanted to go to college, but my parents aren't exactly rich, so I figured I'd join the army. When I got there, I just liked it a lot more than I expected, so I stayed."

"Misters?" The two of them looked up at the motherly waitress from before, who was standing next to the table with an apologetic look. "I'm afraid we're closing."

Shocked, Stan glanced at his watch and found out that it was past twelve. The building was empty except for the staff. The woman put the bill on the table and went back to wiping down the tables.

Before Stan could even take out his wallet, Kyle had two twenties on the table and was leaving. Stan grabbed his jacked and slipped it on as he walked to catch up. "You do know that the bill was under twenty dollars, right?"

Kyle grinned. "I had to give a tip, too." Stan raised a skeptical eyebrow. Kyle laughed. "Trust me when I say that I have plenty of money."

"You work for the government," Stan pointed out. They stepped outside into a dark parking lot.

"Ah, ah, ah," Kyle objected, holding a finger aloft. "I work for the secret underground-type of government, which pays just fine. Off-shore and numbered Swiss accounts."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Your Jewish ass would end up with a fortune. Know what the military pays these days? Even the 'secret, underground-type' military?"

Kyle smiled. "Of course I know, but that's your own damn fault for signing up for the grunts." He looked around cautiously, the action almost invisible. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a slip of paper. A pen appeared in his other hand from the depths of his jacket. He scribbled something on it quick and handed it to Stan. "This is a number you can call me at. It can't be tapped, so it'll be safe for the most part. Be careful what you say anyway."

Stan nodded and pocketed the paper, then turned towards his car.

To his credit, he only looked back once.

---

Stan may not have been trained to be a spy for over half his life, but he knew enough not to call in the first week after meeting Kyle. The other man had hinted at being followed, watched, and listened in on. So Stan went about his normal business for the next week. He collected his pay for a job well done, filed all the necessary reports, fed his fish, and generally made use of his two weeks of downtime.

He also told his landlady that he was moving out. Stan had been staying here because of the mission, but he'd be reassigned once his two weeks of downtime were up. The old witch grumbled about having to file out paperwork, but her much milder husband gave Stan a smile and said that he'd miss the kind boy.

Six days after his meeting with Kyle, Stan picked up his phone and dug out the slip of paper, which he'd hidden underneath a drawer.

Kyle answered on the second ring. "Evington."

Stan winced at the name. "It's me."

"Hey." Stan could almost hear his smile. "I was wondering when you'd call."

"Well, wonder no longer. Do you want to get together?" Stan wasn't sure how freely Kyle could speak on his side.

Kyle's voice became muffled and hushed, and Stan could practically see him ducking down and mumbling into the cell. "Zoe's Café. Corner of 13th and Morgan. The twenty-fourth. Same time."

Stan smiled. "Not a problem."

Kyle's voice cleared and the smile was back in his voice. "I'm looking forward to it."

---


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything even remotely related to South Park. I don't own Kyle, or Stan, or Cartman, or Kenny. Honestly, do you think I'd be writing this if I did?

**Warnings:** Finally, real slash! Implied violence, minimal blood, swearing, it's almost a songfic in the beginning, but I swear that goes away very quickly

**Notes:** Thank you all of my reviewers! I am so very sorry for the long time in between updates. I know excuses are stupid, but school and musical practice and forensics and family trouble and friend trouble and homework and threatening bad grades and everything else ate my soul. I can't make any promises, but I am trying.

The song used in the very beginning is Presumed Lost, by Splashdown.

-

**Keeping Secrets**

Chapter 4

_"The man who can keep a secret may be wise, but he is not  
__half as wise as the man with no secrets to keep."  
__Edgard Watson Howe  
_

-

_- Present day -_

Zoë's Café was a small, out of the way restaurant in the basement of a mini-mart. The lighting was dim and the walls were plastered with letters and paper. Quotes were scrawled across every available surface. Newspaper articles formed a baseboard. There were posters advertising small, local acts that would be playing in the café.

Tonight there was a girl sitting on a stool on the small stage. She had an acoustic guitar in her lap, and a microphone in front of her to catch the song spilling from her lips.

Stan arrived at eight-thirty, partly due to construction, and partly because his sudden anxiety caused him to reject more than fifteen shirts before finally settling on the one he wore now.

He stepped lightly down the stairs and into the café, immediately spotting Kyle at a darkened booth in the back. He weaved his way through the tables and slid smoothly into the booth.

Kyle looked up into his eyes and smiled. Stan couldn't keep his own grin back.

The girl on stage sang softly, hauntingly into the microphone.

_"If they try to clip your wings  
Fly away, far away  
I know why the caged bird sings  
__I'll await my next escape to meet with you again  
Only to meet with you again  
My shadow's here to meet with me again"_

Kyle smiled. "How have you been this week?"

Stan looked away. "I'm moving."

The words didn't seem to surprise Kyle. He only nodded. "You were living here because of the mission." It was halfway between a question and a statement, and Stan knew that he understood. "Do you know where you're going?"

"No." He slid off his jacket. "I'll find out this week. They'll give me a ticket somewhere and I'll be gone that day."

Kyle smiled again, but this time it was grim. "I'm finished with this mission. I'll probably be transferred somewhere else." The two sat in the dim lights and studied each other out of the corner of their eyes.

Stan suddenly saw Kyle's whole body tense up, just a bit. He looked at him and Kyle was staring back, but Stan could tell that his focus wasn't there.

"What is it?" Stan said quietly, trying to appear normal.

Kyle's gaze returned to Stan and, although he seemed normal, Stan could see the fear written in his eyes. "They followed."

_"Ask my heart  
If there's a place to be alone  
Someone tell my head  
There's a place to be alone by myself  
Do these restless eyes  
Tell you I have found a home for myself"_

Stan didn't have to ask who 'they' were. He knew. 'They' were Kyle's captors. The people who had robbed Kyle of a life and everyone else of Kyle himself. He was flooded with rage, and it drowned out the fear of being followed by men that powerful and deadly.

Kyle reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold, peeling off a twenty and laying it on the table. "I know a back exit. We have to go." He picked his jacket off the seat next to him and stood, slowly. "Be normal."

Stan slid out of the seat, using every technique he'd learned over the years to try and appear calm. His heart was beating franticly and he could feel the blood racing through his body. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins.

He slipped on his jacket and saw Kyle nod towards what had to be the exit. Stan went first and Kyle hissed directions under his breath. Stan snuck a peak at the bar out of the corner of his eye. He noticed two men, well-dressed but not unusually so, talking to the bartender. He saw the friendly bartender point at the booth they'd just vacated.

Kyle was directing him towards a darkened door behind the stage. Stan hurried through, Kyle almost stepping on his heels in his haste.

_"If in tears you should awake  
In Memory's arms  
Withdraw embrace  
Silent pools are gathering  
Be still my dear, my shadow's here to meet with me again  
Only to meet with me again  
My shadow's here to meet with me again."_

The hallway they stepped into was nondescript and boring. The walls were grey cement and there were pipes running alongside and above them. It was thin and although there were dim lights hanging from the ceiling, everything had a slight red tint from the glow of the exit sign.

Out of sight now, they ran down the hallway. Their shoes were light against the pavement, and Stan hit the door at a run.

It swung wide and the two were in an alley. Kyle stepped ahead of him, surveying their surroundings. A nanosecond was spent in complete stillness. He nodded at the fire escape and Stan raced ahead. He was taller than Kyle, and so it would be easier for him to grasp the ladder. Just as he was about to jump for it, Kyle's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Too much noise." Kyle moved towards a dumpster next to the other end of the fire escape and pulled himself on top of it, quickly moving from it over the iron railing and onto the metal grating of the fire escape. Stan followed his example perfectly, and the two took off up the stairs.

They were five floors up when Kyle stopped and jammed a pocket knife that had appeared out of thin air into the bottom of a window and then wrenched it open in one graceful movement. He stepped back and Stan climbed in. Kyle tumbled through after. Stan slammed it shut behind him.

Safe for a second, the two took the time to catch their breath.

"How long?" Stan asked breathlessly.

Kyle's face was stoic; his voice was steady. "Not long enough." He seemed to make up his mind about something, and turned to Stan. "They didn't see you. You're safe."

Stan looked at him sharply. "What?"

"Are you armed?" Stan nodded. "They have to catch me."

_"What?"_ he hissed again.

Kyle's mouth was in a thin line. "They'll never stop looking, Stan. I'm too important. You have to hide. Get into another apartment. Stay there. I'm going back out."

Stan shook his head at the thought of being separated. "No, it's dangerous."

"I know."

His tone turned frantic. "But—"

"Listen, Stan, I know the dangers." Kyle grasped at Stan's shoulders tightly. His eyes searched Stan's, urging him to listen. "They could kill me. But no matter what they do to me, I won't let them hurt you." His voice was pleading.

Stan shook his head again. He grabbed Kyle's wrists and held them there. "Don't go, Kyle. Come with me. We'll leave... leave the country. We'll make sure they never find you."

"I can't. They'll always find me. So long as I'm alive, they'll always find me." His voice tightened and almost cracked, but he knew that if he did, he'd shatter.

"Don't leave."

"I have to."

Kyle surged forward, and his lips met Stan's. The kiss was hungry and raw, saying all the things they didn't have the time for. Teeth clashed and the scent of fear and desire was sharp in their noses. They broke apart just as fiercely, but something had passed between them.

Kyle's hands released Stan and Stan let go with effort. Kyle's eyes flashed dangerously in the dark. His voice was strong and determined. "They won't kill me. Go, Stan. I _will_ find you again."

And he was gone.

-

A month passed, and Stan struggled everyday to appear normal. If someone suspected anything, it could mean death for them both. And that was assuming that Kyle wasn't already...

But, no, Stan couldn't accept even the chance that Kyle could be dead. Not then. Not when he'd just found him again. Not after having to come to terms with his death once before. Not after finally accepting that he had been giving a second chance. He was given a new locale, a new mission, and once again he completed it to the letter.

Another month passed, and although his superiors and friends in the department had noticed the dark smudges around his eyes, they said nothing about them, and he gave them no reason to question his state of mind.

And then it was December. Every year, failing some urgent disaster or mission that couldn't be resolved any other time, the department had a few weeks around Christmas off to visit their loved ones. This year, just like every other year that he could, Stan was going back to South Park.

"Hey, Marsh, you taking off?" Stan turned around to see Michael Norman walked up to him, a smile spread across his tall face.

Stan nodded, and smiled. Norman was probably the closest thing to a friend he had in the service. They'd gone through basic training together, and now Stan led their team. He was a friendly, gangly man who, although he was two years Stan's senior, still didn't seem to have outgrown his teenage awkwardness. The man was a crack shot, though, and Stan considered himself lucky to have the talented marksman on his team.

"South Park, right? The middle of bum-fuck nowhere, Colorado?"

Stan rolled his eyes at the familiar teasing. His small-town origins made him the resident target of all redneck jokes. "Yup. Going back to milking my own cow for breakfast. But if you saw the farmers' daughters, you'd go back too."

Norman laughed heartily. "Yeah, too bad they're probably your own sisters."

"And to imagine they want to outlaw that." Stan shook his head in mock contempt.

Norman smirked at the old joke. "You're lucky that you're getting out of here now, though. Someone higher up is on the warpath."

This news caught Stan by surprise. "What?"

Norman shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing much is trickling down to the rumor mill. But I can tell you that something big is going on. I'm thinking about taking back my vacation." Norman had agreed to stay on as one of the skeleton crew during the holidays.

Stan grinned, but he had a feeling that the expression was half-hearted. "Weird." Making a show of glancing at his watch, he started backing toward the elevator. "Oh, man, my flight is in two hours. Gotta go, man. See ya." With that he took off, ready to try and forget about his troubles in the comfort of home.

-

"Hey, fag!"

Stan started, jerking his head up too look across the table. Eric Cartman sat opposite him, taking up almost an entire side of the booth. He was smirking.

"I don't care what homo-dreams you were having, I was talking, queer."

Stan rolled his eyes at his friend's words. Cartman had been annoying when he'd called Stan gay as a child, but when Stan had finally come out to them, Cartman had become insufferable.

Kenny, sitting next to Stan because there wasn't enough room on Cartman's side, laughed. "I don't blame Stan. Any fantasies beat listening to you."

"Shut up, fag!"

Kenny raised an eyebrow and smirked. Seeing as he was the only one at the table with a wife, he knew that the insult was pointless. Cartman shut up and just glared at the blonde man. Kenny turned calm eyes to Stan. "But the fatass—"

"Don't fucking call me fat!"

"—does have a point, Stan. You do seem a little out of it."

At that moment, Stan wanted to tell him. Kenny was a pretty collected and reasonable person. If anyone could help, it would be him. And the pressure of constantly thinking about where Kyle was, and if he was even still alive, was weighing on him.

Then the moment passed and Stan came to his senses. His friends didn't even know what he did for a living. They thought he had a desk job somewhere in D.C.

"You have a new boyfriend, don't you?" Kenny stated more than asked, a grin gracing his slender face.

Stan's eyebrows shot up and he tried to look surprised at the statement, but Kenny just laughed. "Dude, you are so obvious."

"Yeah, you're really gay, man."

Kenny ignored Cartman. "So, what's his name?"

Stan flushed, just a little bit. It was on the tip of his tongue. 'Kyle'. But he knew that the questions that would lead to. "Andrew."

"Gay name," Cartman muttered.

"Are we going to meet him?" Kenny asked.

Stan blinked because he couldn't even comprehend Kyle here, among their old group. "I don't know."

Cartman threw a glance at his watch and broke the quiet moment with his abrasive nature. "Well, if you fudge-packers are done being queer over there, I have to go." He waved a hand at the waitress and pulled out a few bills.

Grateful for the excuse to leave, Stan nodded his agreement. "I gotta leave too."

"Hey, ass-rammers, you gonna be at the party tonight?" Cartman had a huge Christmas party every year, and every year it got more elaborate and expensive.

"Yeah," Kenny said. "I can always use a good laugh."

"Hey!"

"I'll be there," Stan broke in, throwing some money on the table. "See ya guys."

He started walking out of the diner, and Kenny fell into step next to him. "Don't listen to Cartman, dude. He's just jealous. Bring Andrew."

Stan shook his head, pausing at the door. "Nah, he had to work. Couldn't make it this year. But I'll bring him over Easter or something." He gave Kenny a smile, to put the other man at ease. It didn't appear to work.

"Take care, man."

Stan nodded and watched Kenny retreat back into the diner. He stepped outside.

-

Stan was already late for the party. It started at seven and he'd taken a nap after having lunch with the guys. It had been his first somewhat restful sleep in recent memory, and he'd woken at ten to seven feeling more alert and refreshed than he had in weeks. After brushing his teeth and pulling on some nice dress clothes, he'd been out the flimsy door of his motel room.

As much as he wanted to rush, the ice on the roads prevented him from bringing his car even near the speed limit. He crawled along, drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel at every stop sign.

By the time he reached the street that Cartman's mom still lived on, he was over half an hour late. He swore softly at the lines of parked cars running up and down the street. Most of South Park was invited to Cartman's party, and almost all of them came. He was forced to park five houses down.

The temperature had dropped in the past few hours, and Stan rubbed his hands together as he jogged up the curb and onto the sidewalk. He was about to head down the street when some movement caught his eye.

There was no streetlight here, but the light pollution reflected off of the snow and the air was lit up enough to make out an outline. He crept forward. "Hello? Who's there?"

Suddenly the form lurched forward and he froze.

"Stan?"

His stomach dropped to his feet and he rushed forward just in time to catch Kyle as the man collapsed. "Kyle?" He looped an arm under his knees and scooped the man up like a child. He was too light.

Something bad had happened. Kyle's face was worn and haggard, with a few days of beard underlining the bags under his eyes. There was a bruise on his cheek. Even as Stan rushed towards Cartman's, a plan was forming.

He laid Kyle on the ground near the house, apologizing quickly under his breath for the cold. He ran up to the door and knocked franticly until it swung open.

"Stan!"

He almost swore out loud, and was running through his lexicon of curses in his head, but on the outside he managed a strained smile. "Wendy. Nice to see you. Is Kenny there?"

She nodded. "I haven't seen you in so long! How are you?"

"I'm fine. Can you get Kenny? Please?" His voice was polite, but his tone was turning sour with annoyance.

Wendy looked upset, but she leaned back and yelled for Kenny. A second later the blonde head poked around the door. He looked back and forth between the former boyfriend and girlfriend. "Goodbye, Wendy," he said, and she rolled her eyes and walked off. "What?"

"Can you go and open Cartman's back door?" Stan schooled his face and tried to keep from shooting a glance over at Kyle.

"What?"

"Just do it, please?" Kenny nodded and disappeared back inside. Stan rushed over and picked Kyle up, trying to brush the excess snow off of him. Kyle's head lolled against Stan's shoulder and his breath caught in his throat. He spared a second to run a finger softly down Kyle's cheek. The moment was broken by a loud laugh from inside, and Stan knew he had to get Kyle out of the cold.

Although he only saw Cartman's house once a year, and sometimes not even that, he still knew the layout by heart. He made his way carefully through the snow and around the side of the house. He was only a few feet from the back door when it swung open.

"Holy shit!" Kenny exclaimed, jumping down the step into the snow. "Who the hell is that?"

"Just help me get him inside. Keep everyone away." Stan's voice wasn't friendly; it was the voice his team heard when on a mission. It was authoritative. It was cold.

The space just inside that back door was Cartman's laundry room, a room that Stan was sure Cartman himself had never stepped foot in. Kenny pushed the towels and various clothes off of the washer and dryer and Stan set Kyle's still form on top of the silent machines.

"Who is that?" Kenny asked again as he closed the back door, glancing at the sliding laundry room door.

Stan was unbuttoning Kyle's shirt and he swore when it revealed a myriad of bruises. The man had been beaten. Badly. He had cuts running up and down his body, even on his face. The worst ones were crudely bandaged, but it was clear that the bandages hadn't been changed in days. Stan knew from experience that infection might be a problem.

"Holy fuck," Kenny muttered, falling into old habits. Kelly didn't like him swearing.

Stan turned to face his friend. "Do you know where the first aid supplies are?" Kenny shook his head. "Can you get Cartman for me?"

"Yeah, dude." He slid open the laundry room door a little bit and slipped out, intent on finding the party host.

Stan turned his gaze back to Kyle. The man was breathing raggedly and his extremities were tinted blue with cold. Looking around he grabbed a towel off the floor and draped it over the still figure. "God, Kyle, what happened to you?" He whispered as he began removing the old bandages.

In all honesty, Stan knew what happened to him. He knew that Kyle had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. It wasn't as if the people in charge of Kyle's missions had any official government to answer to. They had free range over their agents. Kyle was lucky to be alive.

The door suddenly slid open and Stan spun around. His breathing settled when he saw that it was only Kenny and now Cartman. Kenny slid the door closed behind them.

"Dude, what the hell is going on in here? Who is that?"

Kenny moved forward, his arms full of supplies. Stan looked through them and grabbed a few small bandages, placing them carefully across one of the larger cuts on Kyle's chest. It wasn't a butterfly bandage, but it would have to do. Nothing on Kyle appeared to be broken or sprained, but there was a nasty bullet wound in his arm. He placed some gauze on the wound and wrapped the ace bandage around it.

Stan felt an arm on his shoulder and spun around to see Kenny standing in front of him, looking concerned. "Stan, who is that?"

Stan bit his lip. "My boyfriend."

"_That's_ Andrew?" Kenny asked incredulously.

"Dude, what kind of loser fag are you dating?" Cartman sneered.

Stan saw red for a second. "Shut the fuck up about things you don't understand, Cartman." He shot back angrily.

"Stan, what happened to him?" Kenny's tone was the same one would use to coax a frightened animal, and Stan almost called him on it.

"I..." He glanced around. "I... His name isn't Andrew."

"Huh?" Kenny asked, thrown by the sudden confession.

Stan couldn't help the words. It may have been a combination of the sleep deprivation he suffered those past few weeks, or the fear at finding Kyle bruised and battered and freezing, but the words wouldn't be held back. "His name's Kyle. Kyle Broflovski."

-


End file.
